I have come to a still, but not a deep center, a point outside the glittering current; my eyes stare at the bottom of a river, at the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, my mind moves in more than one place, in a country half-land, half-water. i am renewed by death, thought of my death, the dry scent of a dying garden in september, the wind fanning the ash of a low fire. what i love is near at hand, always, in earth and air.
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I Have Come To A Still, But
I have come to a still, but not a deep center, a point outside the glittering current; my eyes stare at the bottom of a river, at the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, my mind moves in more than one place, in a country half-land, half-water. i am renewed by death, thought of my death, the dry scent of a dying garden in september, the wind fanning the ash of a low fire. what i love is near at hand, always, in earth and air.
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